


dreams of clean teeth (i can tell that you're tired)

by lilhex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (eve's father in chapter 2), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Eve Parrish, F/F, Female Adam Parrish, Female Pynch, Female Ronan Lynch, Gender Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Missing Scene, One Shot Collection, Pining, Rowan Lynch, Rule 63, Slow Burn, all girls school aglionby academy, blue is still a girl in this one tho making the gangsey just a sapphic group of all wlws, complicated relationship with womanhood etc, fem pynch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilhex/pseuds/lilhex
Summary: tales from a different henrietta - rowan lynch and eve parrish
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 26
Kudos: 41





	1. head out the window again

**Author's Note:**

> this work will consist of short chapters, bits and pieces of the lives of rowan and eve. although it's an au, these work as more or less missing scenes from the main plot throughout the books // fic and chapter titles are all lyrics from lorde's 400 lux.mp3

Eve had long hair when Rowan had first met her.

It was pulled back in a bun that time, that first time, Rowan hanging out the passenger window in the Pig, Eve pushing her bike up the slope. And as they drew nearer to the girl Rowan looked at the hair, how the sun painted them a golden brown, how the long waves curved and curled over to form a bun -even when long haired herself, Rowan never did have hair that long- all in anticipation for the moment the Pig would reach the girl, and they were driving past her now, she was looking down, as if hard in concentration on her task, or lost in thought- could it have been both? And her face- god, her face, it was long and whimsical and elegant, Rowan took in her side profile at first, the shape of her nose, her lips, her eyelids, and then she was already behind them, and looking out the window Rowan could take in a hint of what her face would look like sitting across from her. Strands of hair had escaped her bun and were flailing in the wind, catching and releasing the settling sun, there golden, there not. Rowan's gaze lingered on her hands, gripping the bike's handles, fingers long and knuckles pronounced, elegant and childlike at the same time.

Rowan turned ahead again, and then up to the sky, a cloudless spectrum of blues and purples, already dark on the further end.

_Please._

Then, by the time Gansey introduced Eve to her as "the girl who saved me today, Rowan, she helped me with the Pig", Eve had her hair cut short, like a boy’s. But not as short as Rowan’s, of course, the brown waves framing that brilliant head of hers like feathers. She looked like a completely different person than the girl Rowan had noticed a few weeks ago, because now she wasn’t Rowan’s secret, she was Rowan’s competition to her friendship with Gansey. And then the seasons changed, and the world grew different around them, and Rowan changed, too. And Eve’s hair grew longer again.


	2. dreams of clean teeth

It was an overcast day and Eve Parrish’s blood screamed at her to quit. It streamed through her, furious and warm, concentrating on the bruise on her arm and on the one on her cheekbone, pumping and aching and throbbing right there, an endless choir of _just quit just quit just quit._

It was recess. She could just leave, unlock her bike from the bike rack, and cycle home, and tomorrow go back to public school. Aglionby was a mistake. None of these girls would remember her in a week. She would pull her hair up on the way downhill.

She had worn her hair half-up, half-down that day, even though it was overgrown and felt wrong, but the thread in her sweater’s shoulder would stick up whether it was hidden by her hair or not, so covering it with her hair it was. She had used her mother’s concealer for the bruise on her face, even though her mother was lighter and now it looked like a smudge, or a very, very poor try at makeup. It just didn’t look like a bruise, and that was enough. Eve Parrish, trailer trash, might show up to school with a smudged face, might show up with a terrible attempt of makeup on, but not with a bruised face. She might be trailer trash, but her father doesn’t beat her.

Her father doesn’t beat her.

Besides, there was Gansey Aglionby’s golden girl, climbed up on the bleachers, and right by her, Gansey’s friend, the short blonde girl, _Noe,_ she hears them call her, and she, too, bears a smudge on her face.

Granted, Gansey’s crowd was such a question. Coming from money, all of them, and yet the most mismatched constellation in all of Aglionby. Gansey herself, the school’s favorite insists on going by last name - the grand old-money name, _Gansey –_ stuns a room with her ladylike manners but is captain of the rowing team, wears her uniform’s skirt long and impeccable, but bears a sturdy and muscular build. Her hair today is half-up half-down like Eve’s, rich brown waves cascading down her back, but she’s using a ribbon to tie them up, shiny and matching to the Aglionby blue.

Gansey’s company is as contrary as herself. Noe, the small pale girl, also wore the skirt, but her uniform perpetually looks slightly crumpled, not unkempt, just… not all the way _here_. She was shy, but cheerful. Eve shares no classes with her.

And then there was Rowan Lynch, a few lines higher up than the other two, looking down and shouting something to the other two, one leg propped up on a step, like a general leading her men into battle. If she had any hair, Eve thought, it would be fittingly down and blowing in the wind, but Rowan Lynch’s head was closely buzzed, pronouncing her hawkish features, her savage beauty.

Surprisingly, she was in the skirt today. Self-consciously, Eve slipped her hands in her slacks’ pockets. The uniform allowed both skirts and trousers for the students, and when choosing the trousers, Eve knew perfectly well she couldn’t also afford a skirt. Not many girls went for the trousers when in uniform, though they all probably owned at least one pair; Eve wouldn’t like to draw attention to her uniform, and yet the alternative was wearing a skirt every day, so it was hardly a question. So far, Rowan Lynch, giver of no fucks, was often seen in the slacks as well. Today, though, she wore a long skirt, longer than Gansey’s, that left a patch of her legs exposed, interrupted by her long socks, pushed low around her ankles and shoved deep into her army boots.

And yet, somehow, she looked boyish and wild, no more tamed or proper than before. That was Rowan Lynch, then, Aglionby’s problem child, tangled up in her own talons, a smile as a weapon and a curse word at the tip of as a term of affection. Eve watched from the ground as Rowan Lynch playfully shoved little Noelle and Noe almost tumbled over. She quickly reached for Gansey, and Gansey reached for her, and hauled her up. What a contrary, obscure group.

Maybe, in another universe, there was a place for Eve among them, too. But not in this universe, and not today. She turned away, walking out of the pitch, out of this school, out of chasing this life. A loud laugh bloomed up behind her, and Eve could see it, the lip-glossed lips parting widely, the white teeth bared, the sound made visual. The bell rang out, trembling and deafening like a giggle.

Eve took a deep breath, and as the wave of students heading to the classrooms drowned her, she turned around and let the wave carry her back to the school. She would stay the day, damnit, there was nothing worth rushing in going back home to announce she was quitting.

In the sea of heads, she caught Rowan’s buzzcut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @hippolvte if you want to talk me abt rowan and eve or ronan and adam or anything else !!!


	3. i can tell that you're tired

Rowan rolled out of her car and stumbled up the stairs over St. Agnes', plastic bag rustling along, till knuckles met hard wood and she was panting outside Eve's door.

She knew Eve was inside because the Shitbox was parked downstairs, yet there was no immediate response from within.

Rowan hesitated, knuckles in midair. If Eve was sleeping, she wouldn't want to wake her, deprive Eve Parrish of her spare sleep— though if Eve Parrish _had_ been sleeping, one knock would have been enough to wake her up. The girl slept with one eye open.

"Rowan?" Eve's voice came from inside.

Rowan's stomach somersaulted. _Rowan_ \- Eve had gotten accustomed to expecting her, Rowan, no one else, no one else but Rowan. Could it be she was also hoping it was her? Catching herself, Rowan resorted to grunting in the affirmative. And yet, she was smiling.

"Just open the damn door you asshole."

The old wooden floors creaked as Eve walked closer to the door, and then sunlight came pouring into the stairway, and then there she was.

She was barefoot and in her old baggy jeans, but without her belt to keep them in place the jeans hung low over her hips, exposing her hipbones and the rim of –

Her underwear was gray.

Eve was also, Rowan couldn’t help but notice, not wearing a top. A body towel was draped over her neck and falling down on both sides of her torso, as did her hair, grown longer now. And yet, even with all those in the way, there was still too much skin in plain view.

And yet, Eve had opened the door like that. To her.

"Sup?" Eve was asking, standing aside so Rowan could come in.

Rowan shrugged as she walked in, looking elsewhere, _anywhere_ else, trying to buy time.

"Just swingin' by. We could," a glance at Eve's desk, overfilled with books and notebooks spread open, "do homework."

When no sound came from Eve's side other than the closing of the door, Rowan turned to her.

An eyebrow had shot playfully up.

"What?" Rowan asked, painfully aware a smile was creeping back on her face.

"Rowan Lynch. Doing homework."

Rowan shrugged.

"Rowan Lynch, helping a fellow struggling student out," she said through a mad grin. "Charity is one of my many Christian values, Parrish. Don't say you couldn't use some help after Monday's quiz."

Eve rolled her eyes generously. The Monday Latin pop quiz had resulted in a 97% for Eve, topped only by Rowan's 98%.

"That thing," Eve sounded amused. "How did you manage that, anyway? Dreamed up the answers while you napped over your paper?"

Rowan shook her head.

"Sheer talent," Rowan said, plopping down on Eve's mattress luxuriously, kicking off her combat boots. She rattled the plastic bag from the gas station still in her hand. "Snacks," she said, stupidly.

Eve glanced at the bags of chips in the transparent bag and back at Rowan. Her eyebrow remained cocked up, but she didn't comment on those.

"Well nice of you to stop by. I was gonna take a shower."

"Don't cancel that on my account," Rowan said, popping the first bag open obnoxiously loud.

"Wasn't going to," Eve said matter-of-factly.

And then she turned, and as she did- _fuck._ There was a faint line of muscle running down her stomach. There was the hair on her forearms. There was - God, there was the gap between her breasts, and as she moved, the towel moved just so-

Rowan looked away.

Eve walked into her shower, dark hair painted golden momentarily and then the door closed shut behind her, leaving Rowan alone in Eve's room.

She wasn't going to be gone long -the St Agnes' apartment shower was of the sort that you didn’t want to have a nice, long shower in if you wanted one- and Rowan had been alone in Eve's space before. And yet, there was always _something_ about breathing it in, taking her time to savor it without Eve being there. The smell of it, the _feel_ of it.

This was where Eve did most of her studying. Where Eve collapsed at night, exhausted, body tense and warm. This, the cardboard boxes in lieu of furniture, the plastic coat rack at the edge of the room that carried most of her clothes, the ironing board folded up against the wall, _this_ was where she got ready before the day started, in this tiny room, the even smaller bathroom, and yet out she was every day, impeccable as ever. Impeccable in her own way, miles apart from Gansey's way, miles apart from any other girl at Aglionby. Eve seemed to shine with a light, lately, that came from the fact that there was a loose thread in the shoulder of her sweater, not despite of it.

Setting the snacks aside, Rowan paced lightly around the room, running her finger across a page filled with Eve's handwriting here, folding and unfolding a t-shirt there, cheap, supermarket-brand detergent coming from it. And something more.

Behind the bathroom door, the water was still running.

At the end, Rowan sunk down on the floor against the wall where the sun painted a large square, soaking in it. She closed her eyes.

She wasn't about to start dreaming here, of course. God knew what her brain, left unattended, would produce and she wasn't about to wreck Eve's house. Yet Rowan felt that she could trust this space with her dreams. That it wouldn't be hard to dream something nice and harmless here, in this little square of light in Eve’s room.

The water had stopped running in the bathroom. The door opened and there was Eve, in a sports bra and sweatpants, plopping down on the mattress across from Rowan, hair damp and down, running down her chest like the towel had before.

Rowan took a sharp breath, then quickly shoved a handful of chips in her mouth. Rude, and poorly-mannered, and casual. So casual. So Rowan.

"So," Eve said, bringing her hands forth, intertwining the long fingers in each other, childlike thumb crossing over childlike thumb. "You said homework?"

Rowan extended the bag of chips toward Eve's direction, and blinked in surprised when, instead of refusing or only grabbing some, she snatched the entire bag from Rowan's hand.

That was happening. Eve Parrish was sitting across from her, legs spread and casual, snacking on _Rowan's_ food and looking as comfortable as she'd ever seen her. Rowan looked around the room. Eve's sneakers were tossed on the floor next to her, old-white and dirty.

Absentmindedly, she picked one up. The cloth was rough as she run her fingers against the orange details.

"I guess," Rowan said, poking a hole through a hole, "I am always happy to help the academically challenged."

"Stop that," Eve said glaring at Rowan's hands manhandling her shoe, "and get to work."

That's what it was. Eve, hunched over her Latin homework on the mattress, Rowan scribbling some grammar exercises on Eve's textbooks ( _“I'll still have to go through them all over again anyway, your grammar's shit.” “The 98% of it begs to differ"_ ) while the sun painted the room golden, then blue.

And while the sky grew dark and they turned on the yellow light inside the room, it was Rowan sitting upside-down on Eve's chair holding the History book while Eve, on her back on the bed recounted dates and figures back at her. It was Eve solving math problems laying down flat on her belly, Rowan chewing on her leather bracelets. It was, finally, Eve, asleep over their English reading, Rowan pulling the book aside, bookmarking it before closing it shut, pulling Eve's duvet over her, and tiptoeing out.


	4. but you keep the car on (while you're waiting out front)

Eve had work in half an hour, and the Pig wouldn’t start.

“It’s… fixable,” she said to Gansey, voice more reassuring than sure.

Eve was standing a good few feet apart from the old Camaro, books held tight against her chest, her shadow stretching long at her feet, watching Gansey struggle behind the wheel.

Eve could probably deduce what it was if she meddled about a bit, but there was no guarantee she would fix it within the ten minutes she had to spare between the twenty minute drive to work and the time her shift started.

Gansey was not driving her to work today.

“Well, Gansey girl,” Rowan said, her own shadow stretching even longer and leaner next to Eve’s, “looks like you’ll be stuck here on your own for awhile. Call your mechanic. Let’s go Parrish,” and walked off to the BMW at the other side of the Aglionby parking lot.

Eve locked eyes with Gansey, who had now climbed out of the car and was resting one arm against the open driver’s door, shaking her head in complete defeat.

“Go, Eve. I’ll be fine here!” she called out encouragingly. 

Rowan’s horn went off, painting the golden hour with a violent red brushstroke but nonetheless Eve ignored her, walking up to Gansey and knocking knuckles before heading to the BMW and climbing into the passenger seat.

“She’ll be _fine_ ,” Rowan said, annoyed, as she set the car in motion.

“I’ve no doubt as to that,” Eve reassured her. “But she won’t call another mechanic. She’ll wait for you.”

“I’ll just be thirty minutes,” Rowan said absentmindedly, hand on the shoulder of Eve’s seat, neck craned backwards, maneuvering the car in reverse gear out of the parking lot.

“No you won’t,” Eve said. “I’m not actually in a hurry,” although they had already crossed the entrance gates of Aglionby and Rowan had immediately stepped on the pedal like her life depended on it.

“But I am,” Rowan said, eyes on the road. “I got places to be, too, and none of them include spending an afternoon babysitting the Pig.”

Eve gave her a side glance, but didn’t pry.

“You hungry?”

“I don’t have time to eat.” 

“Let’s get something for Rickie. You’re the one who remembers her special burger order.”

Eve sighed.

“Or I just tell you Gansey’s order,” she began in a patient tone, the slightly condescension of which would not be missed to Rowan, “and you pick it up on the way back.”

“What’s it to you?” Rowan replied, in a slightly cruel tone that could not be missed to a hypothetical dead body in the backseat, “You said you’re not in a hurry.”

“And I don’t have to be.”

“Shithead.”

They drove down the cliff where the sun had already set, all the golden light around them disappearing as they crossed into the shadow cast by the mountains across.

It was as if taking a dive off the deep end of a pool. They were riding through a blue country, and they rode through it in silence all the way to the factory.

Once the car came to a stop, engine never off, Eve allowed herself a moment of stillness which would inevitably piss Rowan off, who would not waste a second still in a car if she could speed off instead, and said, “Thanks.”

Rowan said, “Asshole.”

It was clear Rowan would not offer to bump knuckles, so Eve slung her bag over her shoulder as she got out of the car and made sure not to slam the door behind her.

*

When Eve got off her shift, she walked out in the dark to find the BMW waiting, engine running. The light on the inside the car was on, an orange slice in the middle of the night.

“Any update on the Pig?” she asked Rowan by way of hello, climbing inside.

“Mechanic’s, three days minimum,” Rowan snarled, throwing the words at her. It was hard to tell whether Rowan was angry at Eve or Gansey or the world, but Eve decided to ignore it for the time being. “That means you get a lux ride.”

Eve didn’t ask if that meant Rowan had crammed all of her afternoon plans in-between giving lifts to Eve and presumably Gansey, or if she had just scraped them altogether for their sake – and what that would have cost her.

She would never pry, but she suspected Rowan had taken to driving off to the Barns since the summer. What she got up to over there, Eve could only speculate, and even that felt invasive. Who was she to paint Rowan in her head in any way that was not explicitly known to the real Rowan? Who was Eve to pretend at all she knew who Rowan Lynch was?

Rowan had lunged the car forward the moment Eve shut the passenger’s door so Eve was now watching the white lines on the highway run by, at Rowan’s leather bracelets painted gold, then dark, then gold again as the last streetlight followed the next.

Eve felt Rowan glance at her and then back on the road and she took that as her cue to look at Rowan’s direction.

That proved to be a mistake. Eve could not be caught staring; Eve could not look away. The streetlights hitting Rowan over and over highlighted her profile in a way the setting sun had not.

There was something about her. Wilder than usual. This was probably how she looked racing.

“Gas stop,” Rowan announced in a sing-song voice, breaking the spell. Then the car was swerving and a gas stop Eve had failed to notice was before her and they were coming to a stop.

“Jesus, Lynch,” Eve complained, empty stomach churning at the sharp turn.

Rowan slammed the driver’s door behind her by means of reply. Eve watched her through the rearview mirror as she snaked around the car to the self-service tanks. Then, giving in to her newfound yet persisting nausea, Eve tore her own door open and scrambled out.

She gulped in the cold night air, letting it calm her stomach. Her breathing, she did not fail to notice, came out in white clouds. Winter was near, and she was not ready to start calculating heating bills, and she was not ready for her skin to start breaking out again, and she was not ready to start feeling cold. Yet winter was near; she would never be ready.

“My leather jacket’s in the backseat,” Rowan said, tossing Eve the keys. Eve caught them mid-air while Rowan had already turned away and walked about.

Where _could_ she be going? Eve was tired, and hungry, and she had homework yet to do. She couldn’t afford to run late going home.

No matter; she grabbed the leather jacket and slipped into it. The front halves hit her against the chest; the pockets were heavy.

“Ay, gimme the wallet. Phone too, I guess,” Rowan said, suddenly in front of her again, hand outstretched.

Not about to argue how she was not going to touch her shit, Eve put her hands in the pockets, where wallet and phone resided respectively, and handed them to Rowan.

Eve’s hair had grown longer, long enough to pull back. And she _was_ keeping it pulled back, as much as possible for most of the day. But at the end of a long day, she always took it down, temples throbbing from the hair tie. More than half of it was now beneath the jacket’s collar, chocking her. She slipped her hands around her own neck to pull her hair out, and let it fall over her shoulders. Let herself a moment to breathe, no longer cold.

When she turned, Rowan was staring, phone in hand illuminating half her face, but nonetheless forgotten.

Eve wanted to cock an eyebrow to convey _what’s wrong, you asshole_? But Eve was not Rowan Lynch. She could not bounce back as seamlessly as Rowan, now, curling half her mouth unpleasantly and back at her phone, making it look like she was looking at Eve with the distrust of someone who has just lent a poor person their expensive jacket that might still contain money all along.

“Gansey’s gone to bed,” Rowan informed, scrolling through her phone, apparently catching up on a thread of texts from Gansey. Eve nodded, though Rowan was still looking at her phone, and absentmindedly slipped her hands back into the pockets.

It felt – _wrong_ , even though she knew there was nothing in them anymore. It felt wrong because she did not want Rowan to see her like that, because the jacket was foreign around her and very, very distinctly _Rowan Lynch’s_. Leather that made bending her elbows harder than it had to be, and black, and spiked and everything that might come from Rowan’s head after a stormy night. Everything that decorated Rowan’s back.

And yet, it was oddly comfortable and warm. The pockets were deep and whatever laced them was infinitely softer than the hard leather on the outside, and kept Eve’s hands safe from the night air.

“Let’s nuke some dinner, yo,” Rowan announced, walking off to the gas station’s 24-hours fast-food outlet.

“Rowan,” Eve said, not expecting Rowan to pretend to listen, but Rowan stopped and turned, impatient.

“Can’t we just … look, I don’t wanna run late.”

“Why’s that, Parrish? Hot Friday night date?”

She could have, cruelly, needlessly, added _with Sargent_. A few months ago she would have. Whatever progress with Rowan Lynch looked like, this couldn’t be very far from it.

There was no hot Friday night date, which Rowan knew well. There was only catching up on studying, and then a weekend filled with shifts at three different jobs and catching up on homework as much as possible, and two days of figuring out what to eat for lunch as well as dinner.

Rowan had already walked off to the fast food outlet.

Eve was pissed enough at her to let her pay for two burgers with fries, assuming one of them was meant for her. Eve was relieved Rowan placed the order to go, but that lasted only until Rowan followed that up with ordering – of all things – a six pack of beer. Rowan fucking Lynch. The cashier didn’t even ask for ID – whether that was because he sized Rowan up and deduced she had to be of age, or because he sized Rowan up and deduced he was not getting paid enough for this shit, did not matter. She would have gotten the alcohol one way or another. Eve had stood and witnessed cashiers asking for ID, Rowan handing them her real and only one, and them complying anyway. Rowan fucking Lynch.

Rowan continued being _Rowan fucking Lynch_ as she dumped the bag with the hot fast food on Eve’s lap, surged the car forward and back into the highway, driving way past the speed limit, and coming to a stop by a construction site a few blocks from St Agnes’ church.

“What’s wrong?”

“Gotta eat,” Rowan said, almost apologetically. “You can walk home if you’re not hungry,” and, grabbing the fast food bag from Eve’s lap, she walked out again.

Cursing, Eve watched Rowan get through the construction site and then, leaving her bag in the car and keeping the jacket on, followed her out and through the hollow skeleton of the building.

Rowan, safety measures be damned, was already climbing up the cement stairs leading up, one story, two stories, three, and Eve followed her, their footsteps dusty on the steps, empty rooms gaping at them at every story, all black, until they reached the wide open roof.

“Oh.”

It was a cloudless night. Colder for that, but the half moon shone bright over Henrietta.

Rowan shoved the paper bag against Eve’s chest, her own food already in her hands, and sat down on the last step and began to eat. Eve allowed herself another minute to take in the sleeping town around them; and then, she sat down next to Rowan and unwrapped her own food.

“Don’t get any sauce on that,” Rowan said, pinching the edge of her jacket’s sleeve.

“You ought to take that thing to the cleaners once in a while,” Eve shrugged. They ate in silence after that.

It was hard to stay annoyed at Rowan. Not when her knee, her shoulder, her entire side was pressed against hers, when she had left the beer in the car behind, when she stopped eating and tilted her head up to look at the stars as often as she did. Eve did not blame her; she could not look away either. If Gansey was here they would talk about constellations; now, they ate in silence.

Rowan Lynch was a fast machine. It was rare to see her still, as rare as taking a moment to look at the night sky. Maybe Eve did not want to go home yet, not anymore; she pressed back against Rowan’s shoulder and looked at the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this is my favorite so far :)   
> find me on tumblr @hippolvte!


	5. we're never done with killing time (can i kill it with you?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy! :)  
> kerosene-art on tumblr [drew the raven girls](https://kerosene-art.tumblr.com/post/642498851643785216/aglionby-academy-was-the-number-one-reason-blue) because of this fic! which is incredible, to me, and as i loved their headcanon that noelle czerny's favorite song would be teenage dirtbag you might notice there's something about it on this chapter.
> 
> and now, onto the rituals (intricate):

This wasn't how Rowan had pictured Eve's hands ending up in hers.

(Just like finding out Eve liked girls hadn’t happened how Rowan had pictured it – not a passionate, ardent confession of love for her, Rowan, but Eve scanning the Nino’s on that fateful night and immediately averting her eyes down to the table, almost bashfully, the whisper escaping from her, _she’s cute_. Rowan had stared daggers at the short, dark-haired waitress and pretended not to have heard. Gansey had heard, too.)

"Damn Lynch, you live like this?" was Eve’s only comment, glancing into Rowan's bedroom and away.

Rowan replied by bumping Eve's duffel bag against her back.

"Parrish you loser," and she threw Eve's stuff across the room. It slid across the floor of Monmouth Manufacturing for several more feet before coming to a halt.

The electricity in St Agnes was out for the day, so Eve was crashing at their place. Monmouth was bathed in golden sunset, Gansey had rowing practice, and Noelle was probably being incorporeal somewhere. Possibly in the same room as them. Possibly not.

Rowan kicked off her boots and grabbed a Kool-Aid from the fridge in the bathroom. A poor substitute to beer, but it had to do. Eve followed suit, sliding behind Rowan through the narrow door and squatting down by the open fridge to inspect its contents. Taking note of how her face looked under the fridge light, once, Rowan turned around and out of the bathroom again, cracking her drink open. Eve followed her, carrying a mere water bottle, and throwing herself on the beaten up sofa that happened to grace one side of the room.

Then there was a brief silence. Eve didn't seem bothered by it, looking out the window, lounging comfortably. Rowan paced about, unsure what to say next, wandered in her bedroom, came out chewing on a forgotten granola bar and with headphones on, music loud enough to be audible in the room.

She pirouetted toward Eve, who only looked back with polite inquiry.

"This one's real good," Rowan said, and turned off the remote headphones on her phone.

The song blasted through the speakers of Rowan's phone, echoing off of Monmouth's walls, loud, electronic, _squash one, squash two_ …

Eve rolled her eyes while Rowan nodded to the beat.

"Love a mating call," Rowan said, then cringed internally. It was one thing to call songs a mating call to make everyone in the Pig groan, and another, completely different thing to say it to Eve when the two of them were alone.

Eve didn't seem to have paid her any attention, already busying herself with her textbooks. She had spread out the contents of her school bag, and Rowan peeked something uncomfortably familiar among the stationery. _Shit_.

She had thought of the hand lotion, excessively, of how exactly to dream it and what it could do, and how to give it to Eve; but now that it was done, now that Eve _had_ got it, seeing it among her things was too much. So Rowan paced the room again, coming to a halt in front of their makeshift window seat, fidgeting with the assorted items scattered about there. The murder squash song came to an end and Rowan decidedly pressed pause. That had been enough music for today.

"Hm. Thought this was long gone," she muttered, turning the nail polish over in her hands.

Eve looked up, inquiringly. 

"Hm? I thought your fingers just naturally look like that cause you bleed black."

Rowan laughed.

Eve stretched and walked up to her. Rowan was inspecting her fingernails, polish chipped and old. She unclasped the bottle and sharply inhaled the scent of it.

Judging by Eve's scrunched nose, _she_ wasn't as big a fan.

"C'mon, it's not that gross. Wanna do yours?" Rowan asked, casually.

"Not really," Eve replied, casually. She was looking out the window, too, and letting her hair fall over her face, casually.

Her hair had grown longer since she had cut it short, almost two years ago now. It fell past her shoulders, and although the sun-kissed highlights were already fading and it was returning to its regular dark brown again, in this light they were alight, gold and auburn and honey brown.

"Suit yourself," Rowan shrugged, and plopped down on the window seat. She didn't have to, but she began taking off her leather bands, one by one, and as she did so Eve sat across from her.

"Why'd you do that?" she asked earnestly.

"Hm? I don't wanna get nail polish all over them, shithead," Rowan said, pushing the last leather band further from her and closer to Eve.

"No, the nail painting," Eve said, still serious. "Why do you do it?"

She said it like 'why do _you_ do it'. Rowan, specifically. Her eyebrows were knotted in concentration, as if Rowan’s motivations were another of the huge questions that Eve pondered over.

Rowan shrugged.

"Cause it's punk rock, innit?" she said, pronouncing the last word in an accent Gansey had explicitly banned her from using around Mallory, coincidentally also an accent Rowan had crafted specifically to use around Mallory.

Eve smiled faintly, but her frown persisted.

"No... I mean..." she dragged out her words slow, and then all at once, "it's so much easier not to do it than to do it; what's the point? It's only gonna come off after a few days and then you'll have to do it all over again, and I mean," she gestured at Rowan's general direction, "you don't need black nails to let everybody know that's your vibe, like, they already know, cause you can wear, say, your black leather jacket or your boots, and those take a lot less time cause you're just getting dressed, and everyone has to get dressed, you just choose what to wear."

Rowan stared openly. This was the most she had heard Eve speak, spitting out words fast and excited, animated. Lately Eve had been a lot of things: distant and silent, hunched over her tarot cards, uncanny. She had been observant, and deep in thought, and focused. _This_ was new.

There were all the thoughts in her head, swirling madly, overflowing constantly. Rowan wanted in, but never anticipated _that_ was what Eve would open up to her about. Fucking nail polish. _Of course_ she was going to have complicated thoughts about it. Of fucking course. Eve fuckin' Parrish, ladies and gentlemen.

And Rowan didn't exactly have an answer for her. She ran a coat of paint over a fingernail.

"It's ... it's kinda fun to do," she mumbled, trying to explain herself to herself. "And it looks real badass when it's chipped."

Eve made a small face of bemusement.

"I ... guess. But it's just ... like, I know, some people, at school, and well, _anywhere_ , they like that. But I don't get why ... "

 _You_ do it. _You_ , specifically.

"Or the," Eve drew an invisible line vertically beneath her own ear. Rowan cocked her head at her in confusion, and as she did so felt cold silver on her shoulder where her tank top left skin bare, and understood.

"The earring?"

Eve shrugged.

"Like, I get it, it _looks_ cool, but it's … you have to put yourself through all that, get the piercing, get the earrings, wear them, take them off, put them on again … why not just … _not_ do that?"

"Is that the kind of conversations you and Sargent have?" Rowan asked, teasingly.

And then her stomach went very cold and Eve very silent.

That was the wrong thing to say. Eve and Blue's relationship, whatever it was, was off limits, a limit imposed by Rowan on herself. Don't hint on it. Don't tease them about it. Don't bring it up with Gansey. Don't be crueler than you have to. Don't. Don't. Don’t.

She hadn't meant to imply that, to imply that Eve would've pestered Blue about the other girl's painted nails, or piercings, or her tacky jewelry, or elaborate wardrobe – or whatever other adjective you wanted to assign to Blue’s wardrobe. She hadn't meant to imply that she was tired of Eve's rambling and trying to change the subject with an indirect. She hadn't meant …

And yet, she had her answer. Plain as day, all over Eve's face: _no_. Eve and Blue's relationship, whatever it had been, hadn't involved a lot of speaking. Hadn’t involved any kissing, either.

"Shit," Rowan said as the polish, still pressed against her fingernail, overflowed and stained her skin. Using an old single sock lying by on the window seat, she mopped it up, and turned back to Eve, who graciously didn't comment on the sock bit.

"It’s all just part of the thrillshow, Parrish," Rowan carried on, smooth as ever. "Whenever I feel like it's too much work, I don't."

Eve had gotten back to watching Rowan's hands move, painting her fingernails.

"How do you do your right hand?"

"Painfully. It helps that I don't give a shit."

Eve chuckled at that.

"Here. Help a bitch out," Rowan said, casually extending the brush toward Eve.

She blinked, but reached out and took it, carefully. Their hands brushed, and Rowan almost got excited before realizing what she had gotten herself into, which was, apparently, Eve taking firm hold of Rowan's right hand and holding it still and outstretched while she worked on her fingers with the polish brush, face scrunched in concentration.

"You gotta refuel once in a while- that's it. Damn, Parrish, not all over Gansey's window- you shithead," Rowan said. She watched. Eve painted a fingernail, then another.

"It _is_ kinda fun," she mused.

"Told ya."

"I still don't see the appeal though."

Of course. That's what it was; Eve, trying to make sense of the world, a part of the world so far divorced from hers. Eve Parrish was a strategic creature: thrifty, and resourceful, and thrifty with those resources. If it didn't serve a practical function there was probably no need for it. If it _did_ serve a practice function, the one Eve Parrish owned was probably shit. She could understand multitasking, of course: making a fashion statement with the clothes one wore, the car one drove. If one could afford to. But getting out of the way to do something like that?

She had even kept her hair practically short, too, boyishly short; Rowan remembers fixating on the back of Eve’s exposed neck in class, on her hands on it, softly massaging it because God knew sleeping on her mattress on the floor was uncomfortable. Now Eve’s hair was longer, yes, but there was no effort in growing hair out. If anything, it served the purpose of letting her fit in with the Aglionby girls without actually costing Eve anything.

Out loud, Rowan said, "It's probably cause black isn't your color. You should try something livelier."

Rowan wasn't entirely joking when she said that, but Eve chuckled and rolled her eyes. So no nail painting for her. No earrings. Rowan had never seen her in makeup, either; at school, she always wore the slacks. Eve could only afford one set of uniform, but the slacks were probably a conscious choice. Rowan sometimes wore the skirt, enjoying the comfort it afforded her, but nonetheless understood.

Rowan hadn’t been that young back when she first shaved her hair not to have begun getting looks and comments on how she was _a sweet, pretty girl_ and how beautiful her locks were, how cute she looked in a dress. Still a child, a happy one at that, Rowan had not paid them much mind back then. Yet she was aware of how they might have affected her if Niall had never died and she had never shaved her head and had avoided facing some of her inner turmoil a bit longer. How there was a riff between the things she was doing for herself, and those she did to flip off the entire whole world.

How, when Eve said _people_ , she meant _girls_.

Eve Parrish, probably, knew herself way better than anyone gave her credit for. She strived hard to understand others, stay one step ahead; stay afloat. And, apparently, a small part of her wanted to understand what set her apart.

" _Nice_ , look at that, that's some professional shit," Rowan said, fanning her hand, tone teasing but words genuine.

"You really should try it, Parrish."

Eve made a non-committal _tsk_ noise, though she was grinning and staring at her handiwork.

"C'mon, we'll match," Rowan said and, boldly, reached out and took Eve's hand, meeting no resistance.

Her hands were soft. Softer, smoother than they had been in weeks. If Rowan had wanted to be in denial that Eve hadn't been using her cream, the results were right there to snap her out of it.

Rowan took a deep breath, lungs filling up with nail polish, and set to work.

Eve had piano fingers.

The Lynch sisters had taken multiple music lessons during their childhood (Mattie was still taking lessons - but then again, Mattie was the only Lynch sister whose childhood seemed to have survived Niall's death), and although neither Rowan nor Mattie ever particularly cared for the piano, it always was there in the living room at the Barns. Occasionally, Niall would play old Irish songs for them, or maybe they weren't that old, but everything Aurora sang sounded eerie and ancient. Then the three sisters Lynch would sing along. Even Deirdre. And back when Rowan was too young, small enough to fit in her father's lap, he would let her sit on his legs while he played for them. She would watch mesmerized at his hands dancing over the keys, making it look easy. Then, after the songs had been sung, Niall would ruffle Rowan's curls and take her hand, pressing her palm against his, Rowan's tiny fingers stretching hard up to reach his, and tell her how she had piano fingers.

But whenever Rowan tried, it was never the same as Niall's playing. Rowan pressed the keys, and read the note sheets, and concentrated, but hard as she tried, none of Niall's magic was there. It still remained a reassuring sight, the piano in their living room against the wall, and the knowledge that soon Niall would be back and the room would fill with music.

When Niall died, the piano went mute.

Rowan must've said the bit about the piano fingers, because Eve was saying, "So I've been told. I've never played, though. Never learned."

Of course the odds that Eve would have taken piano lessons were small. And yet who had told Eve had piano fingers before? It was an uncomfortable, warm sensation, that someone would have noticed Eve's fingers before enough to remark on them, although Rowan caught the ridiculous edge to it and shook her head.

"I just learned to play the guitar," Eve said, voice even, eyelids lowered in concentration at Rowan's handiwork.

Rowan's hand stopped short. A black droplet concentrated on Eve's fingernail, and Rowan hurried back on the task.

"Get out."

"I still have it."

"At your place? Now? No way! How come I've never seen it?" Rowan asked, baffled.

Eve only shrugged, using her spare shoulder.

"I keep it at the Hondayota these days. Saves me space.”

_Of course._

“So you don’t play anymore.”

“Not really. There’s not much time.”

“But _now_ Parrish,” Rowan says, lifting the polish brush from Eve’s pinky and dropping her hand, fully aware she was wearing her intense smile, “ _now_ we have all night!”

“I knew you’d make me play,” Eve said, shaking her hands dry with the air of someone who had never had their fingernails painted before and now has no idea what to do with their hands. “Wasn’t looking forward to you finding out.”

“Shame, Parrish. Keeping secrets from your friends like that. Hiding away your talents. Jail for Parrish!”

As she said that, though, Eve had already leaped to her feet and walked toward the door, Rowan behind her urging her on, and the two of them galloped down the stairs, rolled out through the front door, and threw themselves against the Shitbox, letting the old metal break their momentum.

Hands and face pressed against the side of the Hondayota, Rowan looked as Eve manned the trunk of her car open and fumbled through it.

“How did you learn?” Rowan shot at her, turning around to rest the back of her head against the warm metal of the shitbox.

“Fifth grade,” Eve’s voice came from behind the upholstered trunk. “We had a good music teacher, he even volunteered extra lessons after school to us who wanted to.”

Eve appeared to the side of the car carrying an old guitar case.

 _Shit_.

Rowan had thought she’d look hot with the guitar, but this was… something else entirely.

Eve yanked the trunk shut and skirted to the front of the car, slid on top of the hood and peeled the guitar free of its case.

It was old, of unspecified brand, an old rustic brown that was probably funky in the 70s and awfully tacky now. Rowan couldn’t choke down a delighted sound at the sight of it.

“Where’d you get that little number?”

“Goodwill. With my lunch money. Months worth of it.”

“Ah.”

But then Eve folded her legs and took the guitar on her lap, and ran her hand down the strings once, and Rowan went very quiet, and Rowan went very still.

There was a bit of tuning, which Eve didn’t seem entirely satisfied with, but eventually winged, and then a chord strung out, and then another, and eventually Rowan, who hadn’t listened to a real instrument played in so long, shut her mouth up and shifted slightly for the first time since the first sound.

Eve’s fingers danced across the strings, and their shadows grew longer on the dusty gravel, the world around all golden sunlight and blue shadows as Eve switched to a different song, something with a quicker tempo. She made a few mistakes, but to Rowan, who hadn’t held a guitar once in her life, it seemed like a testament of skill, how agile her childlike fingers were, how the melody seemed to carry through a beauty and sorrow despite the tempo.

Rowan thought she heard Eve play _Teenage Dirtbag_ and, on that moment, thought she caught a glimpse of Noelle behind the Monmouth windows. But then again maybe it was a trick of the light.

And then the sun had set over Henrietta. The blue shadows had won, and now a purple mist hung in the air, remains of the light. A flickering streetlight went on and off behind Eve’s shoulder. Rowan did not recognize most of the songs Eve went through; thought she caught the opening to _Let Her Go_ , but then Eve changed the tune again to something that sounded vaguely familiar. Rowan could recognize the instrumental but not place the song, which was entirely too frustrating.

And then she had it. The band, if not the song.

“The National?” she blurted out in victory.

Eve stopped, looked up.

“Yeah.”

Then she chuckled, as if surprised, and took the song from the start. This time her playing was a lot clearer, like scrappy notes copied with neater handwriting. And then, Eve _sang._

The world around them was blue and Rowan was on fire. Eve Parrish was there, sitting cross legged on the hood of her shitty car, playing a guitar with black nail polish on her fingertips, and it was getting colder and Rowan was on fire. Eve was _singing_.

People’s accents diminished in song, and that was only partially true in Eve’s case. Her accent was gone; her accent was everywhere. Her voice was bold; her voice was bashful. She was on tune; she was not. She was soprano; she was alto. In the pre-chorus, Rowan joined in. They were both terrible; Eve was good and Rowan was shit; or the other way round; or they were harmonizing, and they were both good.

Then the chorus was over and both their voices trailed away, and they sat in comfortable silence, in the sound of the Pig pulling closer. When the carlights hit them, Rowan looked up at Eve, the way the sharp light outlined her, an artificial halo, guitar now limp in her arms.

Black nail polish stained the strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is so much lore in this chapter to begin to unpack it here w/o making the end notes longer than the actual chapter, but for what it's worth the i need my girl/the national? omg you know the national? bit is based on a real exchange i had with a classmate back in 2015, minus the homoerotic tension and the actual singing. 
> 
> i also put together a short playlist of [the songs](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3CYhgP7PovXIOmaWJERIgA) eve played that afternoon. as you can see, i only have correct opinions about the music the trc characters would listen to, even if that pains me, i.e. eve listening to harry styles. although of course historically his verison of the song is not out yet, which means eve is out there playing girl crush (acoustic) to her crush (a girl) long before any big name musician, because her brain is just that galaxy sized.
> 
> my tumblr: hippolvte


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